


Whittleton

by kingollie



Category: Hitman (Video Games), Hitman 2 - Fandom
Genre: 'never' I cry!, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Light Angst, Mid-Canon, Mild Gore, Minor Canonical Character(s), Spoilers, When will this puppet to the richies catch a break?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 06:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19167571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingollie/pseuds/kingollie
Summary: Or: "Arthur Edwards sees a corpse and talks to a serial killer."





	Whittleton

**Author's Note:**

> I think just this is more so just character building? But Edwards is a gremlin and most definitely emotionally stunted. He also doesn't like suspicious old people, which is fair given his line of work.

Janus lay as he has been originally found: face down upon the tiling of his bathroom. Gore splattered all over, from within the concave in the back of his skull - looking like some grisly hollowed out jack o'lantern. Except congealed with blood rather than pulp and a casual expression of simple grimace playing upon his weathered features, rather than some exaggerated sneering. The blast from the bullet had coated a substantial amount of his bathroom in debris; blood, body fluids, brain matter and the like. Each arm sprawled out uselessly before him as though they were trying to prevent the inevitable collapse as his knees gave way and his body slumped forth. His tongue lolled, pupils pitched up and coated with a milky white sheen. Bloodied foam clung to his lips, clinging to his teeth.

“He was killed like this?” The voice of said dead man's apprentice came out in its usual warbling drawl, he sounded eerily nonchalant about the whole ordeal, features warped into mild disgust - lips curled, brows puckered - but displaying little more than that. Behind his sloping shoulder, the accompanying guards muttered their bland confirmation, their own eyes straying far from the gaping hole which now distinguished the back of their boss’ head. Neither of them prepared to fixate on such gore before their superior, it felt disrespectful to gawk at the corpse with him standing so close. 

“Uhm, yes sir. We were told to leave ‘im like that. For the investigation, y'know?” The Constant crooked his head as he was addressed, inclined to listen. “We could move ‘im now that your ‘ere. If ya’ wanted. I think they're done wit’ him.” Lips pursed, the wiry man before them shook his head, turning stare at them. He looked pale and slightly bedraggled, but hadn't he always? 

“No.” He breathed. “No, I imagine they will have more they wish to look at later.” The tips of both his oxfords came to rest at the edge of the bloody pool, still staring in an almost vacant fashion before him. “I wouldn't want to intervene in any process that they... see fit to employ.” His words were met with an uncomfortable silence, ended suddenly with a low “Oh. Sure” from the same man. They stood there, a moment longer, then retreated into the safety of the corridor where they quickly weaved away to join their companions. Arthur turned, and shut the door with the toecap of his shoe. 

Finally free from prying eyes, the man picked his way closer, examining the body for anything of interest (besides the gaping head wound, that was). Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, Janus was clad in the same outfit he had donned for essentially all of his retirement, and Edwards made a note of his Providence pin still clasped upon his chest when he lifted his slack form with his foot. Part of him expected, still, for the man to heave himself upright with an irritated grunt and strike him squarely between the front teeth with his cane for such a belligerent action. He didn't, of course, instead splaying uselessly to the ground once the supporting shoe was tugged out from beneath him. Dead as a doornail, or some shit.

Arthur's fingers found his own pin mindlessly, and he fiddled with it, thumbing the smooth metal on his lapel. Spinning it about in its place as he hunkered down besides his mentor, resting on his haunches. Hesitantly, he reached for the other's palm, tracing it awkwardly with the back of each finger, nails grazing over the wrinkles - almost self soothing. The skin was already waxy and tight in place, cold to the touch. Unpleasant. He squeezed his hand with a sudden abruptness, furling his fingers about the dead man's and holding tight. He felt fragile, even beneath the slim fingers of the Constant, who was hardly a burly man himself. His own jagged nails (bitten down on by the man himself) caught the skin, tugging. Arthur winced.

Gradually, he withdrew his fingers from the other's limp clasp and exhaled shakily. The man looked weary in his retirement, heavy lidded eyes and tight lipped mouth. Older and more pathetic than he had ever been in his life.

He had barely visited, once the elder had stopped making the effort to arrive at Sgail, only dipping into the neighbourhood once when he was in the area and felt the obligation to. And spent the entire ordeal feeling distinctly out of place is his crisp two-piece suit, especially when he was scowled at by men in khakis and women in sundresses, comfortable under the sun. Arthur felt anything but. Janus had once sent him in pursuit of strong beer (claiming in dramatics that he merely had the non alcoholic variety in his fridge) and he'd slugged his way to the nearest convenience store and returned with a six pack, under the continued gaze of the community - to his chest he had held the beer. Which he'd tossed upon the porch with a practised confidence upon retuning. 

“Here.” He'd slumped down on the step beside the other man, and taken one of the beers for himself, popping the tag and sipping down some mouthfuls of the lukewarm beverage, his nose wrinkled, the taste of beer was acrid and unrefined on his tongue. Janus basked in the late afternoon sun beside him, guzzling down his own beer with surprising vigour. He certainly didn't appear to be the restrained man that he had during his professional life, in fact he seemed distinctly human. At ease in the suburban surroundings, besides the occasional glance to the street about them. He had told Arthur to relax and jabbed at his apprentice’s ribs with one bony finger, snorting to himself. 

It had been odd moment of companionship but pleasant enough. Of course, until he was cramming the rest of the six-pack into the boot of his car after being informed that Janus was on some strict diet and that alcohol was mostly definitely not appropriate for his faltering liver. His ears burnt and the despite the assurance on Janus’ part that “a little wouldn't kill him off” he made damn sure that no more beer was drunk on his part. 

It all seemed rather null and void at this point. With the man's sprawling cadaver strewn out before him. The Constant sniffed; met with the scent of coppery blood, it felt all the more real when he could essentially taste the death beneath him. It was sickening, the plump mass of flesh which was exposed to the surroundings. He decided then that he wanted out. 

It didn't take him long to briskly navigate his way to the back garden, even with the prying eyes of the guards trailing after him. Where, upon stepping out onto the patio, he hunched forwards and clasped both his knees, kneading them and shuddering. Feeling palpably sick. Bodies usually elicited no response from him, but here he was, pitched forth and shuddering as if to recollect himself. Breathing in, with rasping breaths which made the depths of his chest cavity ache with the effort he expended with them. A low, pitiful sound rolled from him, mournful in the most subtle manner he could manage. The image of Janus’ splattered carcass spread out on the tiles, all dignity lost to the people who had slaughtered him. The sickened feeling heightened, even as the physical nausea subsided.

Eventually, he straightened with a rattling sigh, tugging his phone from the depths of his pockets. There was a single message, from a private number:

“Meeting. 17:30 (GMT) - Be there, we must talk about the current situation. MS.” 

Stuyvesant, Arthur figured, the youngest partner often did perform the most menial tasks out of the three, his elders prefer to remain out of direct touch with him unless the situation deemed as much. Which evidently it did. Janus was gone, that left little between Grey and the Partners. Just himself and some direct family, although he doubted highly that Grey and his posse would have their sights set on the likes of Cornelia Stuyvesant. So alas, he would inevitably be next, if this wasn't nipped in the bud.

Rounding the corner he was confronted with the likes of an elderly woman, lurking upon the porch, features vacant, she seemed to perk up at his presence, gaudy pink sunglasses riding down to the crook of his nose. 

“Hello!” Her voice was a thickened, well practised coo. Arthur couldn't read her face behind the visage of warmth. He didn't like it. “Oh - sorry! I was just,” she gestured vaguely towards the front door of Janus’ home, “he was a friend and I heard that.. well, you know news travels fast.” Both brows perked up. “Did you know Janus too? I don't recognise your face.” She picked her way off the porch, head inclined. 

“I am.. a friend, through our jobs primarily.” Edwards followed her movements with the same sense of unease. “I am busy and had little time to visit, simply. But was in the area when I heard.” The woman's features fell into an exaggerated frown. 

“Oh, well that's a shame! Mister…?”

“James.” The Constant lied smoothly. “I suppose.” Her hand was extended over to him, wrinkled and perfectly manicured. He paused, then took it - her handshake was firm.

“Well. My name is Helen West, but just Helen will do mister James.” She winced, withdrawing her arm. “How are you feeling about the whole ordeal? Is it bad in there?” Despite the airy lightness to her manner of speech, the words were oddly calculated and the intensity to them was particularly unnerving. 

“It is unpleasant, Ms West. He's dead.” He replied curtly, attempting to edge his way towards his vehicle - an unassuming old Volkswagen. She trundled after him, rooting about in her purse. Wonderful. This is exactly what he needed, his current plan was now interrupted - even if it was just marginally. (Although that plan primarily involved returning to his hotel room, downing a bottle or two of expensive whiskey, showering until his skin was raw and dissociating entirely in anticipation for his next meeting.)

“Well, that's just awful. Any idea what happened to the poor old thing?” From her bag, West produced a cupcake of sorts, trimmed with pink, twiddling it between her thumb and forefinger. 

“Possible heart or liver disease, he was very old and very ill. It was only a matter of time before he succumbed to, well... his age.” Calmly, he turned at an angle, inclined to leave. He could only pray she'd take the hint. Although his actions were conspicuous West immediately shuffled closer, proffering the cake to him - expression the same one of inscrutable happiness. She quickly readjusted her glasses with her other hand. 

“Here. May help.” With hesitant fingers, the Constant took the cupcake with a muted ‘thank you’ and a bow of his head, he wouldn't eat it but taking it was polite nonetheless. She smiled brighter. “Janus never really liked them, but perhaps his friends will be bigger fans.” She chuckled. “Do you think they would enjoy them?” One hand waved loosely towards the house and the clusters of guards loitering in complete view. Arthur reminded himself to tell someone to reinstate training etiquette. 

“Most likely.” He raised a brow, meeting her inquisitive features which warped under his words. Delight. He didn't like this woman. 

“Well, you're clearly busy mister James so I shan't keep you any longer. Don't be a stranger, any friend of Janus is a friend of mine." She withdrew and with a low huff of relief, Arthur opened his car door, hunkering into the driver's seat. “A pleasure.” Came her call. He nodded, already fiddling with the key and sinking with relief when the car spluttered to life.

Never would he return.


End file.
